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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29137272">Silent Cultivation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlicornAirport/pseuds/AlicornAirport'>AlicornAirport</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Silent Cultivation [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Zootopia (2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bellwether Conspiracy, Crime, Discrimination, F/F, Gen, Happytown, Homelessness, Hyenas, Multimedia, Original Soundtrack, Original visual art, Other, Pack, Pre-Canon, Survival, TW: Clinical Trials &amp; Drugs, TW: Disabled Characters that aren’t in the best place right now, TW: Misgendering (cause hyenas)., Unusual mammals in general, album</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:27:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,480</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29137272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlicornAirport/pseuds/AlicornAirport</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>"How may a flower grow by the sea?" asked the bird of paradise, with her dried leaves.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"By knowing where to take root," replied the marigold, between wilting petals.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And they decided to chase sunlight, though they were planted under the harbor.</em>
</p><p>Or: a story of crime, survival, and found family.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Shhh-spoilers...</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Silent Cultivation [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2170227</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. To Feel a Wave and Still Die of Thirst</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><em>Welcome to the harbors.</em><br/>  <em>Watch the ebb and flow of the currents and the wind; it'll tell you where the city's headed.</em></p><p>Silent Cultivation is a multimedia project. All writing, art, and music is by me (@AlicornAirport on Twitter).</p><p>Every chapter will start with <a href="https://alicornairport.bandcamp.com/track/to-feel-a-wave-and-still-die-of-thirst">an original track</a>; and a chapter cover. Listening to the music is very much optional, but I recommend doing so before or after reading the chapter.</p><p>Future notes will include only <a href="https://alicornairport.bandcamp.com/track/to-feel-a-wave-and-still-die-of-thirst">the link to the track</a>.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> You always ask for stories. And I always ask: a real one? Or an Anansi tale? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And you laugh when I say I only tell Anansi stories anyway. Because no one else in the township knows them. But you like them, because I like reminding you: real stories are true for a while, Anansi stories are true forever. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But forever can be a short time, Baasi. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So I’ll tell you of how Anansi made a flower grow with bitter water. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sky had denied him water as revenge for marrying her daughter, so Anansi went to the sea. He asked the sea for water for his seed, for he wanted to see it bloom.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The sea said no. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So Anansi wove a web, and pulled the moon down, tricking the sea into reaching for its light. Then, he ensnared the awestruck sea in a trap, and hung it above his flower to drip grey, bitter water. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Soon, the sea wept in pain, so Anansi released it, promising that he would pull the moon down, if only the sea would give more bitter water for his flower. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And with this he watered his seed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>  The flower took forever. But when it bloomed, it was the most beautiful blue. It even outshone the sky herself.<br/>
</em>
</p><p>
  <em> All Anansi had to do was wait for forever to end. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Remember this, Basma. </em>
</p><p>She did. </p><p>She <em> does </em>.</p><p>She recites it to herself for a week from inside a shipping container over the sea.</p><p>Then another week, from inside a shipping container over the harbor.</p><p>Baba told tales of forever.</p><p>And a single forever is over. But the next one is yet to end.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The water’s freezing.</em>
</p><p>It’s easy, sometimes, for Basma to decide that it’s not a good thing… sleeping in humidity and cold that bring the sea to her bones. Except for the crashing of the waves. She enjoys the sound, softer than it should be from the crashing currents. </p><p>
  <em> Static. With rhythm.</em>
</p><p>Cold-stiff hands (<em>get gloves at the donation box) </em> pull hard on the improvised twine drawstrings of her hood just as the smells of ship fuel and brine hit her, carried in the wind, too strong to be called a breeze.</p><p>Right now it could knock her over.</p><p>She breathes, letting a shaky sigh take the pressure off her chest, staring into the distance… trying to savor the moment before the lights turn off in the city and the slight lavender glow of sunrise dissolves to grey. Even in this grey, the sun still shines, reflected in multicoloured glass: a kaleidoscopic array shining on a light rectangular space, where the harbor’s concrete is—<em>was </em> protected by an abandoned shipping container.</p><p>Where <em>she</em> was protected, for a little while.</p><p>She stands, slightly askew—feet glued to that very same spot—till a ship horn blares her quiet scene away. </p><p>As always, she has somewhere to be.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The only place on today’s list (<em>keeping lists is good</em>) is a little faded pink awning, watching over a truck trailer with no wheels. It’s not very far, so she gets walking (<em>limping</em>) to the empty lot (<em>just eight minutes</em>).</p><p>Ever since she's stopped trying her luck in the city proper, Basma’s been waiting for the sunrise to start walking. It’s the time when dockside comes alive, makes her feel a little more… normal (<em>like belonging</em>).</p><p>Both dockworkers and commuters crowd the cracked sidewalks, stepping over tree roots and broken concrete in a way that makes Basma’s gait approach a natural rhythm. Some of them walk confidently on the frigid street, though most mammals around here know each other well enough to fill the empty lanes with so much talk it drowns out the distinct lack of vehicles (<em>but the old motorcycles are everywhere. The rumble</em>). It takes away from Basma’s normality.</p><p><em> You just don’t know them </em>yet.</p><p>She distracts herself by having little conversations (<em>staring is not talking, Baasi...</em>), by switching her rucksack from paw to paw, by looking at the graffiti. The murals. All the details in the little shop signs that repeat at varying sizes (<em>“studying the cracks in the dust” </em>). All the things that just made her miss her turn. </p><p><em> Tops </em>. </p><p>She still makes a right on Yellowtail, further into Pack and the overgrown city. Past the corner stores and the abandoned tailor’s shop (<em>Formal Attire * Formal Hire!</em>). After a few blocks, she can smell the lot: oil and deep, burnt, deeply-burnt pans and griddles. And fried plantain pastries. Which means she can’t distract herself any longer.</p><p>Smells mean opening time, and opening time means time running out before the swarm. </p><p>Basma makes a decision.</p><p><em> Maader klas; bint so well-raised she forgot how to be hungry</em>. And she <em> had </em> forgotten… At least until the oil tempted her salt-numbed nostrils (<em>lost enough weight to make Baba worry and clothing ads jealous</em>). She smiles at the thought—acerbic and dry in the day’s humidity—and turns again, doubling back a few blocks.</p><p>Pushing away the fronds of a stocky palm tree growing from a crack no palm tree should grow in, Basma finally makes her way onto the lot. </p><p>The grey gravel space lies sandwiched between the stripped-back walls of concrete block mountains, growing beach grasses in between the tagged and smog-stained walls of the industrial sandbox. And in the middle, there’s a crowd. It’s big enough to draw interest anywhere else, but around Auntie Yamaris' wheelless metal box, it’s just part of the scenery.</p><p><em> Bigger than the crowd at the St. Marian shrine in the corner</em>. </p><p>This crowd is silent, except for those muttering to themselves, or pleading forgiveness for almost crushing a smaller mammal.</p><p>So Basma tries to skirt the crowd (<em>it’s not rude; you’re not here for food </em>), coming up by the side, where the staff door is ajar. </p><p>She still knocks, though. And waits.</p><p>A few seconds pass before the pale-peach muzzle pops out from the crack in the door: “What?”</p><p>The first time Basma had seen Auntie Yamaris, she’d thought the hook-spined opossum was a particularly sun-bleached kivu rat (<em>needle teeth look uncomfortable</em>). It hadn’t taken long to get used to her, though. Especially since the older mammal's been willing to feed her like she's family. Continuously. Even if Basma’s suspects Auntie doesn’t recognize her. Or know her name.</p><p>
  <em> The hungry child still lives, eh? </em>
</p><p>Basma puts a paw up in a contained gesture: “New day, auntie.” </p><p>Auntie Yamaris sucks her teeth at the greeting and Basma has to remind herself: <em> that’s just how she is </em>. </p><p>“New day mija.” <em> She calls everyone that. </em> “New line to get on, too.” A bony claw extends, pointing towards the blob-shaped ‘line’, “Y'know my prices.”</p><p>She does. But she's not here for her daily hot meal. Or for the shrine.</p><p>"Uh, Auntie… "</p><p>"<em>Pero muchacha </em> didn't you hear me say? No line-skipping."</p><p>"Ah, no, Auntie. I'll get in line. Later. I… did not come for food today." <em> Stop fidgeting; you'll start smelling. </em></p><p>Auntie waits for whatever this is, arms crossed over the multiple layers of grease staining her apron. </p><p>Basma forces herself to continue: "I had been thinking—"</p><p>The door heading for her stomach cuts her off. It misses by a few centimetres—she flinches anyway. Her hip locks, and before she knows it, she's sitting on the ground, gravel and pebbles digging into her skin through her fur and charity-drive jeans. The crowd around her's too focused on the suddenly-empty counter to care.</p><p>"<em>Diañes Sonny</em>!"</p><p>Basma looks up to see a very pointed face whip in her direction: pointed ears, pointed nose, pointed 'oh shit' look plastered on round green eyes… A face she’s only seen behind the counter, right up until it zooms into her space. </p><p>“Aw <em> fuck</em>. Dude, I’m so sorry bro. Let me help you up.” There’s usually a couple of arm lengths between her and other mammals. “I’ll give you two pastelitos or something. Just stay right—¡ow!” Auntie Yamaris has him by the ear; she’s digging her claws in.</p><p>“Mijo, go serve the mammals. I’m talking to her.” </p><p>‘Sonny’ moves, something between a jerk and a shrug, freeing his pinched ear. "Uh, sure tía." To Basma: “Sorry girl. It’s, uh… it’s the clothes.” <em> Sure. </em>Still, more than most mammals do.</p><p>Basma leans on her elbow, rising slowly. Before she's fully stood up, she has a greasy paper bag thrust upon her, conjured from the aether. She can only object, in a minuscule voice: “Not here for food.”</p><p>“Mm-hm. <em> You're eating</em>. No figure on your bones." <em> It’s alright. </em>She takes the bag anyway. “So. Tell me mija. What’s your name?”</p><p>“Ah. Basma.” <em> Eloquent communication, Baasi…  </em></p><p>“And what do you want, Basma?”</p><p><em> Now speak. </em>“ieddsomplaceay”</p><p>“I can’t read minds muchacha. Speak louder.”</p><p>
  <em> Eish. Couldn't go much worse now, could it? You know how to do it. So just speak properly. </em>
</p><p>“I need a place to sleep Auntie.” <em> All of it Baasi</em>. “They took back my shipping container yesterday,” Auntie cocks an eyebrow. “Eh… where I stay, yes? On the docks. Dockmaster says they need it gone now-now. Clean Zootopia initiative.”</p><p>A snort escapes from the opossum's crooked muzzle, “Sorry mija.” She grumbles under her breath, “Better clean <em> them </em> up one day…”</p><p>“A-And the shelter can’t let me in without a job; they say I need priority but I can’t work here—the city. No open positions but the shelter ou won’t let me—” A palm held up silences her.</p><p>“Mira—Basma—look,” Yamaris sighs deeply, furrowing her brow as air comes out. She takes a while before speaking, eyes squinted: “If you wanna use the lot… can’t tell you nothing. Is not very smart, but it's not mine. Watch out for the rain. And the blue.”</p><p>Police are not an option.</p><p>“I can work.” This, she knows. “You can use help, yes? With a job I can be at the shelter. No mugu hyena in your fur.”</p><p>Thin, bony fingers come to rest on Basma’s elbow; as close as Auntie can get to a paw on her shoulder, “I can give you a job, mija. But the shelter people won’t take it. There’s no money after the free meals either.”</p><p>Basma frowns in thought. “But it’s a job.”</p><p>“But it don’t got the papers, mija. The city register o la vaina esa. None of us do.” She seems to notice the hyena’s slow but certain deflation (<em>I thought…</em>), “You can volunteer; help the mammals like you, Bondyé reward you.” She signs with her left paw, outwards, inwards, then a circle over her chest, eyes towards the clouded sky as she kisses her forefinger’s knuckle. A sign of the thorn. </p><p>Basma just… stands there, eyes unfocused.</p><p>“Sorry mija. Really.” Her face says she means it. So do her paws, now cupped around Basma’s stiff fingers. She gives them a gentle shake, “Now go eat—and don’t forget to pay.”</p><p>Basma nods. And stays there, watching, numb, as a blurry splotch that must’ve been Auntie climbs the three rachitic metal steps to the kitchen.</p><p>
  <em> Eat, Baasi. </em>
</p><p>The door closes and she clutches the paper bag closer, feeling its warmth through her clothes.</p><p>
  <em> Eat. </em>
</p><p>Basma’s legs move to the corner of Auntie’s lot, completely out of reflex. Almost counting the steps. She comes to a stop at the edge of the candle-covered mantle of the shrine, bag guarded in both paws, rucksack hanging from the crook of her elbow. </p><p>Auntie Yamaris’ shrine to St. Marian occupies a larger space than her kitchen <em> and </em> the accompanying tarps and awnings over the metal tables and cheap composite chairs of all possible sizes (always mismatched). It’s a sprawling mountain of votive candles, mantles, boxes, decorative lights, and small offerings, centered around the effigy of a rust-red vixen clad in a pink habit, wrapping an eel around her shoulders with tattooed arms. </p><p>There’s a crowd of photographs and drawings rising between the candles, propped up by their glass containers. Absolutely spotless among the gravel. Clean.</p><p>The hyena, stuck in the mental space between shock and panicked planning, lifts the food, mouthing a little ‘thank you’ as she does so. </p><p>
  <em>Baba would understand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Now  eat. </em>
</p><p>A somewhat calmer Basma with darker thoughts shambles over to a faded blue metal foldout on the corner, easing herself into a white plastic chair sporting a half-erased <em> Nutty-Kola </em> logo.</p><p>As her mouth is absentmindedly coated with delicious oil and ají, hurried thoughts run in circles: Last choice turns out to be no choice.</p><p><em> You could try again, see if you fit inside the kitchen lying down. </em> She's certain she doesn't. <em> Auntie Yamaris would let you. Or you could just hope the shelter has a place tonight.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Or try the city again…  </em>
</p><p>The prismatic lights of the city proper made for a beautiful view, and an even more intoxicating environment, alive with clashing smells and constant movement. But Basma had soon found that it offered no shelter in the night, and that the absence of sirens just meant they were turned off. Do-not-disturb. </p><p>Handcuffs are the same everywhere.</p><p>She starts folding the bag, hoping to use it for isolation in case of <em> camping</em>, stopping at the discovery of a large lump: a second pastelito. </p><p>Basma glances over to the fast-moving shapes behind the makeshift metal counter. Green eyes catch her own like searchlights. The pointy-faced helper looks around the crowd before whispering something into Auntie’s ear. Auntie frowns, proceeding to shoo him away with the back of her paw, all while folding dough.</p><p>Basma takes the pastry out of the bag.</p><p>“The seat ain’t taken, right?” She looks up to see Sonny’s zoomed over to her little black hole of a corner. His face is too flexible for comfort.</p><p>“…right.” That was her panic’s seat.</p><p>He slides into the chair like he’s sinking into a pillow, and leans into the table’s wind-cold surface, curling his tail behind him. “Look, uh, I’m sorry about the whole… <em> thing.</em>” A paw gestures vaguely at her.</p><p>Basma nods. <em> He’s sorry Baasi; be nice. </em> She doesn’t feel like being nice right now; she feels like curling up.</p><p>“It’s better if you just, y’know, squish it a little bit. Let the oil drip on the bag. Not the table though; tía makes me clean those.”</p><p>She doesn’t press the oil out for fear of further ruining the bag.</p><p>“Okay. S’okay. But, uh, I heard ya asking my tía for a job,” The fur along Basma’s spine spikes, following the same rhythm as the icy needles digging into her back, “...aaand I heard what she said.”</p><p>Basma bites down into the second pastelito, trying to occupy her mouth.</p><p>“So I know a guy…” The hyena takes another bite. "Look br—uh, sis, I'm tryna help you here. For real."</p><p>From a pocket that must've been somewhere on the inside of his apron, Sonny pulls out a cardstock rectangle, pushes it along the table until it's right beside Basma's elbow, where greyish teak and spots meet solid black.</p><p>Basma hates herself for picking it up.</p><p>The cardstock is paw-cut, but impressively straight. On it are three lines:</p><p>SONNY</p><p>PROFESSIONAL CONNECT</p><p>(966) 451-3487</p><p>“Shit, sorry. It’s on the other side.”</p><p>Basma turns the card around in her paws. In the middle of the slight yellowing of oily fingerprints, there’s a number scrawled in neat, deep-blue ink:</p><p>(966) 097-2866</p><p>“You can ask for Wilson’s people. Tell em it’s about the Courier job. From Sonny.” He smiles a lopsided grin. “They’ll hook you up.”</p><p>She keeps turning the card around in her paws, staring it down like that’ll explain why she’s holding it in the first place. <em> But no choice is now </em> a <em> choice, right? </em> She wishes she had some mineral to wet her dry mouth.</p><p>“Look, I get you’re not gonna just jump into something ’cause a random fry cook told you to, but it’s legit; I promise.” The promise finds its way to his face, tugging his expression up into a more… disarming arrangement.</p><p>“Will it get me into the shelter?” she inquires in earnest, hoping.</p><p>“In the shelter‽ Girl, you’ll have <em> money.</em> You could probably get an apartment or some shit!”</p><p>A few heads on the edges of the crowd turn their way. Sonny doesn’t seem to mind.</p><p>Something’s gnawing at her, though. There’s a biting sense of slight approaching dread. Something she doesn’t fully <em> get </em> yet. <em> Questions, Baasi. Hard questions with hard answers. Be clever about this. </em></p><p>She must’ve taken too long to reply, because Sonny curls his muzzle up and interjects again, in a whisper: “It’s not one hundred percent on the up-n-up, but it’s still one hundred, y’know? Wilson’s an honest mammal. No bleeding heart like tía Yamaris, but honest.”</p><p>Basma’s face pinches around the bridge of her muzzle.</p><p>“Why?” It’s the best she can come up with right now.</p><p>Sonny slides back into his chair. “Tryinna be good, I guess. Show Tía Yamaris she raised me right.”</p><p>“That is not what I mean. Ah... why don’t <em> you </em>take it?” That stops him, stops his fidgeting with the little plastic ring on his finger. He seems to weigh something in his mind.</p><p>“I <em> been </em> working for Wilson. I’m just trying to spread the love, is all. That’s why I’m here helping my tía at 6 in the morning.” His neck turns too far to be vertebrate, “She’s gonna hang me from a lamppost if I don’t get back too…”</p><p>Basma slips the card into her left pocket, dry-swallowing in synchrony.</p><p>Sonny's state bores into her for a few seconds.</p><p>“There’s payphones on Roebuck by the bodega.” He scampers out of the chair, fastening his apron on his neck, “Y’know. In case.”</p><p>The assistant's (?) shifting body shape slides its way through the crowd, once again abandoning Basma to the thing between her ears.</p><p>Black paws get back to folding the now empty, oil-soaked paper. It seems too good. Like it seemed when Baba told her about the gleaming city, the memories and the sweetness hidden in bitter sips. </p><p>She decides she’ll try one more time. </p><p>One more time. <em> And one more time and time again… don’t be dof. </em> She is, though, right now. But she’s made up her mind. Intent honed into something a little sharper, a little less like asking. <em> Ace out </em>. She’s taking the bitter sip. </p><p>So Basma makes a stupid, stupid plan.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>It’s been… around four hours? <em> The time doesn’t matter </em>. Four hours since Basma decided to take residence in the train station connecting Pack (the maps say Packing District &amp; Dockside) to the canal district in the city proper. The ZPD hasn’t been around, despite the cameras and little watchstations; neither has the ZTA. </p><p>Despite the tightness in her face, she giggles internally: <em> All the acronyms feel a little like home</em>. <em> Both homes </em>.</p><p>It took her an hour to get here, where the name of the district is a little more honorary and the sidewalks and car lanes actually come in different sizes. Still, even as the last cross-bay train arrived five minutes earlier, there’s been no one around to clear out the public spaces in the station.</p><p>She watches the last stragglers yawn to their trains, long neck craning placidly as she wonders if this is any better than whatever Sonny was offering. </p><p>Back in the township, she’d often been cooed at for being too trusting: <em> sweet to a fault, the bag of bones, </em>but now she thinks she’s perhaps trusted too little. After all, if there was something she’d had to force herself to learn, it was that legality was often blurry, and that grey areas sometimes offered the best shade.</p><p>The locking of the station’s first brass gate cuts her thoughts—and her options—short. Her feet probably leave some new marks on the floor at the click of the industrial-strength lock. She curls them up onto the seat, bunkering down in order to offer at least some appearance of forgotten luggage if they come, asking her to get up.</p><p>She puts her blanket over her head, letting herself sink into the dark warmth.</p><p>And she waits, every jingle of the key and squeak of rubber-soled hooves echoing somewhere between hope and an oxygen-sucking hole in her stomach. </p><p>With every passing second, she considers running out of the station and walking the 45 minutes to Roebuck Avenue.</p><p>She’s just about to give in when everything goes quiet for a few seconds. No jingle, no squeak, no locking doors. <em> Bitter sips. </em> If only the sweetness could come. </p><p>After a few deadened seconds, fingers poke out of her self-imposed isolation, tentatively parting the blanket to let a sliver of light in. But instead of the white space lighting that suffused the station when she retreated into her cocoon, there’s a deep industrial yellow beam, stinging her reddened eyes.</p><p>“Hey buddy, you alright?” <em> Too late </em>. The voice does sound genuinely concerned in its soft tones, however, so her right paw joins the left one in parting the curtain of darkness, “We’re closing now.”</p><p>Basma can now see the tiger in front of her, pressed robin's egg dress shirt and slacks towering over the rows of amber wood-and-cork seating. There’s pity on his face. </p><p>No badge; he’s not <em> Bo four </em>. Only a nametag, unreadable to half-blinded eyes.</p><p>“If you’re waiting for a morning train, it’ll be a while… and I can’t let you stay here all night.” The hyena looks up at him, knees to her ribs, body still hidden by the blanket. </p><p>She tries to be clever about this: “I am waiting for morning, yes.”</p><p>A nervous chuckle erupts from the station attendant's mouth: “Yeah. No. I understand, but… you’re, uh… you’re gonna have to wait somewhere else, sir.”</p><p>“I am waiting for a morning train.”</p><p>The striped feline seems not to have expected that answer. He stands so perfectly, uncomfortably still, that Basma doesn’t notice the officer creep up on her.</p><p>“Everything good Hassan?” She almost gets whiplash turning her neck towards the antelope standing the next row over in his ZPD vest. <em> Rubber-soled hooves… </em> </p><p>“Yeah, uh, everything’s alright T. I was just telling our guest here that we’re closed.” He gestures at the darkened screens that hang from the walls, “Waiting for a morning train n’all.”</p><p>The antelope’s gaze flickers to Basma, then the tiger. He shakes his horned head, “I got this.”</p><p>“It’s really OK.”</p><p>Basma’s eyes plead at the ZTA attendant from within the safety of her blanket.</p><p>“You sure?” She draws her knees tighter into herself, trying to fill the reopened hole in her stomach, “This is police work, Hassan.”</p><p>“<em>You </em> sure?”</p><p>“Yeah,” A whine, stuck in the middle of Basma’s throat, comes very close to escaping, “Yeah. Go close up the station. We'll do a coffee run when I’m done, ’kay?”</p><p>A million-year pause.</p><p>“Okay T. See you in five.” Amber eyes widen in the blanket shroud. Right as wide shoulders turn around, hooved fingers draw closer to a belt pouch.</p><p>And just like that, the hyena takes off. All fours. Half-skidding and drifting right. Spots blur as the trailing blanket tangles on rucksack straps.</p><p>She hears the antelope mumble something far behind her.</p><p>Thoughts jump around to the rhythm of her heartbeat pounding in her head as she tries to recall where she hasn’t heard a door lock. </p><p>No idea.</p><p>She hears the floor squeaking behind her. <em> Quick, Baasi </em> —She turns right, pushing through the pain in her hip. Faster. <em> Faster </em>.</p><p>Stop.</p><p>She’s on her back. No pain yet, but through the cold shock she can see the antelope’s face looming over her. His left hoof is holding the edge of Basma’s heavy blue blanket.</p><p>“You wanna make this hard? ‘Cause I can make it hard,” on the other side, he holds a pair of cuffs, “I know you’re not holding out for a train, spots.”</p><p>Basma really wants to move.</p><p>She really <em> can’t </em> move.</p><p>“Yeah. Thought so.”</p><p>Postrate now, she feels the snakelike embrace of metal around her wrists, tightening far beyond the strictly necessary.</p><p>That whine chooses this precise moment to escape.</p><p>“Don't cry little gnasher; I'm sure we'll find lots of pretty, stolen stuff in your backpack, and then you can go play with your friends over at sing-sing, mmkay?”</p><p>
  <em> You’ve drowned in the bitter sip, Baasi. </em>
</p><p>Basma’s eyes are wet. Boiling. She finds herself fighting to find some way to take back the tears before they swallow her.</p><p><em> They itch</em>.</p><p>The antelope jerks her arms up by the cuffs. It barely lifts her from the ground.</p><p>“Are you gonna get up, or do I have to call a friend?” There’s a sound somewhere between a crackle and a buzz.</p><p>Short legs struggle against the polished floor, paddling like a cub in a shallow pool. A jerk on her wrist tears at her shoulder, but it helps her find purchase.</p><p>“Good.” The push between her shoulder blades almost brings her down again. Her body gets the message.</p><p>As she’s pushed along the station’s walls, she can feel the cold air of the building in its entirety, in her bones like the sea mist keeping her awake. It hurts differently, though; it’s sharper. A little more like intent and a little less like asking.</p><p>It’s not very long before they come to a smaller push door, very unlike the towering brass gates on both ends of the station. The antelope drags her through it, no effort.</p><p>It couldn’t have been more than five metres further… </p><p>The night outside is warmer, and brighter, but it’s still a winter night. And there’s still a red and blue light on top of the armored cruiser she’s been shoved into.</p><p>Her ears pick him up through the glass separating them, “Yeah Has. Just gimme fifteen. Business at the station.” A laugh, “The other station. Where I get my coffee for free. No, I swear. I’ll bring it back. Almond espresso, right? Okay.”</p><p>There's a stretch when she feels like she's floating. Despondent.</p><p>It doesn’t take long until the woven cushions make her remember sleep. It takes even less for the chill in her back to crash against the warmth in her skull, chasing it away. The rocking and bumpiness of the vehicle’s movement hide her trembling (<em> no one to hide it from Baasi </em>).</p><p>At some point in the first few seconds of the ride, she considered getting out. It was all very easy, really, until it came to the how. </p><p>The bumps stop. </p><p>A door opens. A door shuts.</p><p>The stretching of her neck lets her see… another cruiser up front, and polarized glass to the sides. She lets her head fall back onto the cushion, and its own fuzzy deliberations.</p><p>A door opens.</p><p>Now she can see. A hippopotamus by her feet, all filed teeth and dress blues.</p><p>“Up.”</p><p>She wasn’t trying to make a show out of her inability to comply, but does so anyway.</p><p>“Nah, Trunks. This one’s crippled or something,” Horns poke out from behind the massive shoulders blocking her view, “gotta help her up like we’re a nursing home an' shit.”</p><p>The larger mammal grumbles and Basma <em> really </em> tries to get up now. He pulls her out anyway.</p><p>“Don’t squirm.” To the antelope: “Drunk tank? Or drug tank?”</p><p>“Wherever the fuck you want; I gotta go get Hassan coffee.”</p><p>“Careful with that orange fucker. Don’t trust him.”</p><p>“He’s nice. No fangs when he smiles.”</p><p>“They're still there. But fuck it. You gonna be at the tunnel?” They’re almost at the blocky door to the concrete bunker of a building and Basma’s feet have yet to touch the ground.</p><p>No reply.</p><p>The grey mass pushes, captive first, into the ZPD station.</p><p>There’s a smell of stale coffee and cleaning products inundating the white-tiled space—and Basma’s nostrils. None of the mammals inside, moving around in various states of field gear, seem to notice.</p><p>“Wesson,” a long neck pokes out behind the receptionist’s glass, sporting perked-up ears, “drug tank.”</p><p>Basma’s vocal cords tense, “No drugs boss. I was waiting for the mor—”</p><p>
  <em>“Wesson…”</em>
</p><p>The receptionist’s long body slithers out of the metal door that separates her desk from the lobby, “Sir.”</p><p>The mustelid is so small Basma’s legs tense with the thought of running for it (<em> again? </em>). Her jaw tenses too, at the reminder of the crushing presence at her back.</p><p>She’s dragged further into the fortress, past turnstiles and locked doors, until the receptionist stops in front of a grey door, flanked by keypads at various heights.</p><p>The smaller mammal glares shiftily at Basma, covering the keypad with her body as she punches in six digits. She swipes a card.</p><p>Basma's inside a room now.</p><p>As the mammoth door closes, Basma realizes there’s nothing on her back but her hood.</p><p>She doesn’t do anything about it.</p><p>The room is nothing but white walls on a concrete floor, permanently lit in sharp blue.</p><p>She needs to sleep.</p><p>
  <em>She needs to sleep.</em>
</p><p> </p>
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  <em> 25-15-21 14-5-5-4 20-15 11-14-15-23 20-8-5 12-1-14-7-21-1-7-5 </em>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. To Find Harbor in a Quiet Storm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://alicornairport.bandcamp.com/track/to-find-harbor-in-a-quiet-storm">Soundtrack for the chapter.</a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Up and up and side to side, and fuck no and <em> fuck yes </em> and, really, the important part of that train of thought is “fuck” because it can describe all of the feelings in Xochil’s body right now: the tingling, the overwhelming urge to move, the squeeze of her fingerpads on the top of the spray cans as she makes them spew chrome and magenta and all kinds of bleeding colors for marigolds and expressions of just about every kind of shit life has heaped on her. Just about every way she’s come out the other end. Sometimes.</p><p>Directed sprinklers of experience and irreality. </p><p>There’s a chromatic saturation everywhere around her. Within her. It’s the softest grass in a place that can afford to mow it; it’s the sharpest supernova seen from a roof in the Meadowlands. She can feel the light escaping from her eyes, instead of being drawn in: without detail but in bold color. </p><p>Poetic language comes easy in this state.</p><p>Again and now, and now, and now. Forever.</p><p>For hours, her slant is dangerously acrobatic, threatening to cooperate with gravity and pull her down to the ground. She really doesn’t think she’d care if it did right now, as long as the view from the bottom is as electric blue as balancing at the top. The fall would be flooded in chrome, the breaking of all her bones would be a bright purple.</p><p>She floats impossibly, tethered by colors like a many-tailed kite in a storm.</p><p>Yellow-green pain in her lungs reminds to breathe now; she resents it. She's drowning, timeless, and she loves it.</p><p>Oxygen is <em> really </em> unimportant, as long as the colors keep coming.</p><p>So is sound.</p><p>It’s not like up on top of the overpass columns is ever a quiet place. Then again, Pack and Dockside as a whole are never quiet. Something else is alive, always. A blue noise.</p><p>Always traffic, always gunshots, always the damn train. Always some delinquent spider-climbing on fire escapes to tag the overpass, leaving shallow claw marks in the cheap concrete. Hissing in spray paint tones. Some bald canine freak, full of tattoos.</p><p>A part of the neighborhood’s character.</p><p>"And this is my fucking stage!" she howl-shouts at the abyss of concrete and dimly-lit streets below her little ledge. Nobody can hear and that's exactly the point. The exclamation bows her body at the waist, dangling her like bait.</p><p>She uses this momentum to fling herself back onto the ledge. Sudden stop.</p><p>Again and now, and now, and now—and almost gone.</p><p>The edge goes fast lately, at a hurricane pace. But that's okay, because what are rabbit cooks good for if not companionship and illegal substances?</p><p>A pang of grey guilt stabs her through at that thought.</p><p><em> Love, maybe</em>. Again and now. And maybe never.</p><p>Maybe for haunting her from the shadows in the corner of her eye.</p><p>What is <em> she </em> good for, if not companionship and illegal substances? Shitty companionship, anyway.</p><p><em> Stop</em>. She can't talk herself out of this. The hairless mammal’s defeated mind decides, like an exhausted homing pigeon, to go down to Persephone's, before her night is <em> completely </em> ruined. Or to ruin it some more. Who knows. So her body obeys, jumping in death-defying ways she knows she can't achieve sober, onto the fire escape of the nearest building, sandwiched so close the overpass might as well be its awning.</p><p>Fire escapes are always for climbing. Windows are for sneaking in.</p><p>Cold metal feels alive beneath her paw pads as she slides and <em> swings </em> down multiple floors of tired stairs, using the rusted small-mammal ladders as handlebars and acrobat poles until she stands on the ground, impossible movement catching up to her muscles all at once until they feel like tired bedsprings.</p><p>Her body's still here. <em> She </em> might as well not be. </p><p>All is still.</p><p>In the noisy quiet, the colors stop coming, and she’s suddenly <em> so very small </em>. </p><p>Everything is so dark. </p><p>She has difficulty thinking, with nothing left but wind on her skin. And clothes that itch. And the shadow covering the midnight sun she once felt. <em> Fuck, </em>that sounds bad when she’s not tripping.</p><p>Fire escapes are also for coming down.</p><p>Xochil finds herself standing there, vaguely bobbing, feeling the dull cold on her furless skin as looks up at the overpass. The shades are washed out, but they’re still there: flowers and a tag. </p><p>So very small. Small and small and small and occupying too much space. A little terrifying. It’s like floating on a current, knowing you’d been able to breathe the water in, in a previous life. So she floats her stick of a body down the street, closer to the docks.</p><p>Movement is sluggish and dreamlike, a dissociative trance. There’s a dullness in the way that harsh streetlight reflects on the humid pavement.</p><p>She can’t shake it off, but she can turn floating to swimming.</p><p>She’s good at swimming these streets anyway. Good at reading the colors, whether they’re on mammals or walls or cars. Whether they were put there willingly or not.</p><p>Blue for 37th, forest green for Jackfoot, off-white for notoriety and money, sunflower yellow for what remains of Happytown. Identities. The few mammals that part like waves in front of a ship at her passing have no colors, and it's easy to know how long they've lived around here by how long they stare at hers.</p><p>Sirens are sounding off somewhere. They’ll keep sounding all night. Whalesong to the swimming.</p><p>Too much time passes before she’s standing in front of the stairs to Persephone’s apartment. </p><p>She’s there in an instant, yellowish-grey and hesitant.</p><p>The old projects've been here forever, like most of the district, sitting and settling into their foundations like misshapen melting glaciers. <em> Unlike </em> most of the district, these buildings are part of the old mask called Happytown: covered in bright tones and cozy pastels and made out of "friendly" shapes and "safe" materials that made everything look that much more run down. Made to stick fifty mammals in a space made for five.</p><p>So Xochil ascends the faded sunset color of the concrete stairs, long robbed of the rough flooring supposed to guarantee her claws purchase. Had there been a rail, she would’ve brushed it with her fingers; she settles for brushing the remains of a “mural” that covers the staircase’s walls. </p><p>Everything around here’s painted with the sad reminder of a half-hearted attempt at a happy ending, papered over with every vaguely-paper-like substance possible.</p><p>Usually this specific complex is just a little less fucked up than the buildings surrounding it, but Xochil’s presence brings it down, balancing it out to a less-than-respectable grit, crawling under its skin.</p><p>The paper itches under her feet.</p><p>The maned (heh, maned) wolf climbs until she finds herself nose-to-door with one of the way-too-many nondescript and numberless apartments. Surrounded by outdoor plants in clay planters. Thick tarps over boarded-up windows. The right apartment.</p><p>The wrong place to be.</p><p>It was a selfish decision, coming here. After 2 weeks, she doesn’t know how much it’ll hurt… but she’s here, and she’s always known she’s selfish.</p><p>Deep breath.</p><p>Why would she bother knocking if she's already being self-indulgent? </p><p>Always unlocked, the pale door just swings inward at the leaning of her shoulder on it. Didn’t even have to twist the handle.</p><p>There’s complete silence. A thicker darkness. </p><p>A sudden weight on her back.</p><p>She’s on the floor now, her nose throbbing in quick, smacking, red-gold pain. Pressure on her neck.</p><p>“If you wanna leave with all your teeth—” The scratch of the voice above her head matches the claws digging into her lower back. A pause before the long-suffering sigh she knows is coming.</p><p>“Percy.” The groaned-out name earns her a slap to the back of the head. Right where what little fur she has can pad the hit out.</p><p>“<em>Knock, </em> dumbass.” As soon as the weight lifts from her shoulder blades, Xochil’s eyes track the white of the rabbit’s backturned ears as it hurries down the hall. Her own personal ghost story.</p><p>The moment said tail is out of sight: “<em>But I need my daily surprise hugs </em>, girl.”</p><p>There’s a shapeless mumble from behind the kitchen door. Sharp. It ties knots in her stomach that keep her from laughing.</p><p>This is the conversation she didn’t want to have.</p><p>The canine stands upright now, walking a little more consciously into the apartment. She’s never seen Persephone’s place in any other light than that of a pitch-black sea with small slivers of UV lighting behind its single inner door, but she still knows her way around. The turns and crevices and obstacles approach familiarity for her—at least the ones not counted among Persephone's secrets.</p><p>Here, she can see colors even in the dark.</p><p>Sparse as a train station at midnight, the apartment’s main room is mostly walls, cheap pinewood shelves and hanging fabric hammocks. Xochil doesn’t really know what any of it’s for, except for the floor mattress <strike>they</strike> she sleeps on, on the nights she can actually close her eyes—and her newer spray cans and grease paints, fastidiously arranged just like she herself never could. A newspaper-wrapped bar of black soap.</p><p>She chases the recent memory of Persephone’s walk into the light's purplish tone, further into the short hallway.</p><p>Ashy elbows push one more door. One she knows she should've bothered knocking on.</p><p>She’s not really <em> allowed </em> here, per se.</p><p>As soon as she takes her first step into the harsh atmosphere of Persephone’s bedroom-turned-kitchen-slash-lab, she wishes she was wearing something other than a cold-shoulder top and joggers.</p><p>Just like a mind-reader, the rabbit tosses her a random piece of shiny fabric, a foil hammock with no frame. </p><p>No rebuke.</p><p>Xochil's nose twitches at the overwhelming smell of chemicals she doesn't know the name of, and she can just <em> feel </em> the glare through Persephone’s polarized lab goggles. It cuts through the hum of the lights.</p><p>The rabbit’s wearing street clothes too.</p><p>“Are you going out?” The room is so much emptier than usual, with its planters and pots and expensive-looking medical equipment.</p><p>"Don't." She can feel where this is going; it’s a tension in her temples. Still, she opens her mouth:</p><p>“Why—”</p><p>“<em>I don’t know</em> <em>Xochil</em>,” black-padded paws pinch the bridge of her muzzle in a way that probably violates all her own annoying lab rules, “I don't know enough to know and I don't know enough to guess. You know what I know? I know Wilson wants his money. I know I prefer my skin <em>on</em> my body. Which is why you gonna pay your rent by <em>telling me why</em>.” </p><p>Homeless artists who sleep on sometimes-friends' hallway mattresses don’t pay rent. And she didn’t keep Persephone from going out and dealing with things, just like the cook didn’t keep her. She doesn’t even <em>know</em> who re-ups Persephone’s materials. She really just wants to keep making excuses.</p><p>“I thought I paid by being a supportive friend, body pillow, and all-around awesome bitch.” </p><p>“You’re behind on two of those,” Persephone exhales, matter-of-factly. </p><p>That… stings. It makes her body break out into hives. Especially because it’s completely true. Maybe Percy <em> should </em> keep her from going out. Maybe this is her way of telling her to get out for real. And forever.</p><p>Just like she knows she’s selfish, she knows she’s dumb when she’s down.</p><p>“I—” she’s glad when her justification gets cut off:</p><p>“<em>You </em>’re going down to the tunnels.”</p><p>Silence is so charged in here… </p><p>“The club?” she begs. The itch on her arms intensifies.</p><p>“Which tunnels you think?” Xochil doesn’t—think, that is—or at least she tries not to when she’s on the come-down. She paints, rather. She scratches.</p><p>She figures her silence says enough. </p><p>“Either that or you going to Wilson’s with the money to pay this month.” Persephone knows <em> exactly </em> how impossible that is for her. And she’s angry enough to throw it in Xochil's face. And the wolf hates herself enough that she'll take it.</p><p>For a moment, she wishes the voice in her head would fuck off to wherever it was hiding when the colors flooded her. A little graveyard of thoughts and feelings between her ears. Flowers included.</p><p>“Okay.” That’s as far as her charisma takes her right now. That, and a sigh.</p><p>She half-stares, urging herself to move. Just—</p><p>A flinch. She could’ve sworn she just saw the rabbit flinch.</p><p>Persephone has these moments.</p><p>Xochil’s fingers uncurl, tentatively reaching out:</p><p>“Percy…”</p><p>In time with her extending arm, an unnatural slack gradually falls on Persephone’s shoulders, chased by a rare softness. Unexpected. Unusual. Not unwelcome.</p><p>She’s not going to say no to helping her. Persephone can cut when she wants to, and sometimes when she doesn’t, but Xochil’s scared for her. They both know the rabbit has a gun to her head, and any number of cases that’ll magically get her name on them if she dodges the shot.</p><p>Touch.</p><p>There’s a now-gloveless paw on Xochil’s cheek. She leans into the caress fully, knowing it’ll leave that place very soon. It's like the softness envelops her whole. She can forget about being colorless.</p><p>The paw’s gentle magnetism softly leads her, bowed down, to the perpetual darkness of the hall. A darkness of velvety fur and unseen warmth.   </p><p>Darkness of a <em> beautiful </em> ghost story.</p><p>The smallest scratch of whiskers on her forehead drives her itching away, violently. It's all chills now. Chills and pastel tones. Except for the tiny warm spot of the peck Persephone leaves behind. That warmth expands until it’s just enough to make her feel like summer. Like she could spend the rest of her life here. Her short, insane life.</p><p>"Are you blushing?" She's the only mammal the rabbit knows that can visibly blush. Or at least the whining growl in her throat makes her hope so. It seems to be answer enough for Percy.</p><p>Xochil’s chin is softly guided up until her eyes are level with Persephone’s own: yellow on grey. She can see the unasked question behind the almost-pupilless irises in front of her.</p><p>Persephone doesn’t get scared. But she’s <em> concerned</em>. For her.</p><p>“I’ll be extra careful. Promise. Dewclaw swear.” The smallest, sedate softening of smile wrinkles appears on the other mammal’s grey-furred face. Like sleep to the freezing. In a breathless addition: “Gotta pay rent.”</p><p>“You do. When you get back.” Just like that, Xochil is left with empty air where Percy used to be. A void and an afterimage. </p><p>So very small.</p><p>Breathe in. In. In.</p><p>A short pause. She catches soft packet of something thrust onto her. Soft and cottony and still warm. A balled-up hoodie. <em>Gifted</em> to her. It could belong to either of them considering the size, but it smells of disinfectant, gardenias, and muriatic acid. It smells like Persephone.</p><p>“Blue line, Xochil. Thirteen? Night District-Meadowlands. It’s the fifth supply closet from the Dockside station. Little black seeds.” Sparse instructions and a subtext she thinks she understands.</p><p>She hopes she nodded.</p><p>Turn around.</p><p>Xochil’s off. She leaves as soon as she'll allow herself to, because if she stays… a few grams off the top is always better than the entire batch. There’s a part of her that wants to reassure herself, to say Persephone is better than anything she could take behind her back. That the lab isn’t tempting. But she knows how to sneak.</p><p>Breathe out. Out. Out. <em> Out</em>.</p><p>Her legs take the stairs two at a time. </p><p>It’s that point of the night, when the only difference between the inside and the outside of the apartment is the particular hue of dark blue.</p><p>And the moon.</p><p>Mammals in corners and creaky playground equipment linger outside the buildings, sitting on concrete tables and benches and watching their homes sink into the sidewalk, talking and laughing, and trading little invisible things in a pawshake, or an arm movement. There's martens playing suicide in a basketball court that's way too big, probably never meant to be used. It's all been here since forever, so no one stares.</p><p>Moving is just as numb an experience as when she came here, but thanks to Persephone, now she's thinking. She’s running away again.</p><p>If Percy didn't get supplies, and she didn't get a warning… nah. Wilson doesn't do mammals like that. He does them worse, but it's always to their face. Plus, Xochil was squared in, and Percy was… something like that.</p><p>No sirens.</p><p><strike>Irrational</strike> dread creeps into her at the same pace as she creeps through the old streets. </p><p>Laundromats and 24-hour takeout places light the main avenues in flashing dots and wide beams, but she still feels like she’s plunged into something dark and abyssal as she moves down the lonelier streets into the blocks where tags stop mentioning 37th Street. It’s not long before she’s in a place where she doesn’t recognize the mammals hanging in the corners.</p><p>And Persephone’s in a place where she doesn’t know if she’ll be alive tomorrow. </p><p>She plunges further.</p><p>Walls around here are more uniform. Even. The few tags she can see she doesn’t recognize. Steady streetlights in a warm orange. A few cars. No sirens.</p><p>A house party rages somewhere above her in what was once a storage space.</p><p>“What’s your fucking problem with Anna, stripes?”</p><p>“No, y’all go back to the party. You my guests. Yeah, yeah, inside. Don’t worry. I’mma be there.”</p><p>“I said, <em> you have a motherf </em>—”</p><p>She pulls her hood up, disappearing into the velvet fuzziness that is so much like being held. Relief washes over her at finding the ear holes are too small. </p><p>It smells like cold sweat inside.</p><p>Gyms and cleaned-up bodegas spew comfortable illumination onto the street. The sidewalks are size-adapted for different mammals.</p><p>No laundromats.</p><p>By the time she gets to the ZIR station, there is only one lonely gate open; she slips through it like it’s the cracked window of a foster home after dark.</p><p>Down the stairs, the square ceiling lights are still on, accentuating the emptiness surrounding the four or five mammals left here that she can see. On their phones or falling asleep on the station seating or both. The whole place smells like they’re cleaning. Reeks like they <em> should </em> clean. Street and bleach.</p><p>Eyes flit up to read the blinking station screens, done changing for the night. The last train on line… <em> thirteen </em> left half an hour ago. </p><p>Breathe in.</p><p>Without another look, she scurries into the downwards slope of the train tunnel, climbing over the divots and trenches of several platforms until she's walking down the right one. That would probably be a stupid decision if it weren’t… if it weren’t… it <em> is </em> stupid, but she does it anyway.</p><p>It's easy to be unseen.</p><p>If she had fur, it would probably stand on end from the railway’s charge. Still, the darkness isn’t the only reason for the goosebumps steadily covering her body. Dewdrops of sweat crawl down her back; itching climbs up, all over, making her feel like she’s rubbing her skin against the old cracked paint over rust and dry wood that underlies the rail’s metal and wires. It just gets worse as she continues down the slope into the under-bay tunnel. </p><p>The descent is so gradual, she doesn’t know at what point she was swallowed by the stillness of the shadows. It’s not like night at all; it’s just a dead, greyscale darkness, dotted by sickly service lights on the sides.</p><p>There should be something else. Some noise that isn’t grey. A drip. Steps. Claws on the floor.</p><p>If she had her colors back, she could go in fearlessly. If she could <em> see </em>them.</p><p>She realizes she forgot to count the service doors.</p><p>Looking up the tunnel, there’s a single light, which she assumes is a door. Just one. No forks on this tunnel yet.</p><p>Her imagination tries for the apartment. This is just a hallway she hasn’t been down before. With a hard enough look, she can see the hammocks, the shelves, the UV slivers. She can hear Persephone muttering to herself somewhere deeper inside, maybe humming. Her ears pick up the sound of the propane heater. She follows the voice, past the cupboard where she sometimes stashes marshmallows and candied pineapple.</p><p>She tugs on the hood’s drawstrings.</p><p>Breathe in. In. <em> In </em>. Quietly. Take her paw in yours, the roughness of the pads, the softness of the fur. Trace little circles on the back of her palm. Feel her fingers relax around your own.</p><p><em> We should go get some noodles, Percy. I know that place you like just opened up again. </em> They walk arm in arm. And she smiles. </p><p>It’s inane and quotidian and something that hasn’t happened in… <strike>not ever, not really</strike> months, but it’s just what Xochil needs right now. That and continuous dry-swallowing, like there’s still a tab dissolving on her tongue. </p><p>Imaginary Persephone’s voice is huskier than usual. </p><p>Breathe out. Out. <em> Out </em>. Quietly. Look out for the doors.</p><p>Imaginary Persephone’s voice is now a muffled shout.</p><p>The voice is too loud.</p><p>The door is ajar.</p><p>The <em> fifth </em> door is ajar.</p><p>Despite the risk of slipping, her claws retract into her toes. She tries holding her breath.</p><p>Hold. Ignore the itch.</p><p>She stops.</p><p>The heavy metal surface of the service entrance is held half-open by a brick placed between it and its frame.</p><p>This sliver of light is so unlike the one behind the lab door… It shimmers and pulses with the movement of the flashlights that project it outwards into the tunnel. Her eyes can’t adjust to the intermittent lights. But her ears can still hear voices, now quieter.</p><p>Xochil sidles up to the crack in the door, lowering her hood just enough for a single ear to poke out. Her phone comes out of her pocket, way too bright as she records a voice note for Persephone.</p><p>“—really talks more than he should.” The voice is easy, settling into the surrounding bed of echoes. Harsh but comfortable in its talking.</p><p>“Yeah, well, I think the boss tells us <em>less</em> than he should. Anton’s just asking the questions Koslov won’t put out there, yeah?” Very large mammals. Large enough for this service door to be an obstacle.</p><p>“That’s ‘cause Koslov’s <em> smart </em> . Medvedev’s just a smart-<em>mouth </em>.”</p><p>“Better smartmouth than dumbass.”</p><p>“Who are you calling a dumbass in that example, Stanislaus?”</p><p>“The one that can’t figure it out.”</p><p>“Uh-huh. I’m just saying, my coat’s still stained from that… You got the greeting card ready?”</p><p>There’s a stepping noise from somewhere down the tunnel. Xochil tries to choke back her startled gasp.</p><p>“I think they’re early.”</p><p>“From mailmammal to singing telegram,” She can hear the slide and click of a fresh cartridge from inside the door. “Mamochka would be proud.”</p><p>The steps are echoing closer. There are voices too.</p><p>Fuck. Fuck. <em> Fuckfuckfuck </em>. She didn’t even bring a spray can for the eyes. Her phone's stuffed deep in her pocket now.</p><p>She’s never liked filing her teeth, but Persephone makes her do it.</p><p>Shoulders tense.</p><p>As soon as the pistol’s barrel peeks out of the door crack, Xochil rams the door with all her strength.</p><p>A startled snarl. A <em> furious </em> snarl.</p><p>The door slams into <em>her</em>.</p><p>A hollow smack and hot salt on her lips tell her that she’s been pressed between the door and the wall. Exploding on cue, sickly bursts of color dance between her brain and her eyes.</p><p>With no time to breathe, there’s a sandpaper roughness around her neck. Her muscles struggle against brick and metal tubing. Between the wall and the tendons she can feel against her trachea.</p><p>A paw larger than her shoulders. Calloused and solid.</p><p>A polar bear taking their time. Breathing heavy. Eyeing her tattoos.</p><p>A raised eyebrow.</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“I'm gonna give you a little greeting card, pack mutt,” shifting eyes and a voice like cracking icebergs, “that's not a euphemism… just 'cause the boss is a classy mammal, and he likes it when business is done right.” </p><p>The bear takes something small and silver from the inner pocket of a black satin suit and now Xochil knows they were lying and now she's gonna die and no one's gonna find her and then Persephone's gonna be alone until Wilson's people come for her and she's a case on some shitty forgotten docket downdistrict but then nobody's gonna be angry about that and now she wonders if she just started a war with Pack in the middle and she's stupid really stupid and <em> the feeling of freezing metal on her collarbone cuts it all short </em>. </p><p>The metal card slides down onto her torso, where it catches her top's fabric. Intruding between Xochil and the hoodie's embrace.</p><p>“Now, you take that over to whatever milk-toothed corner dealer stood up on the street and proclaimed themselves boss this week,” there's a shift behind the bear's back. A fuzzy silhouette. “Tell them to call for a little primer on honest transactions, with winter's greetings from Tundratown.”</p><p>Tense. Tense. Around her neck. Breathe. She can't. Breathe. The bear's stopped moving.</p><p>“Don't make me lose my bonus, Agnieszka.” Different voice. Behind. Blurred.</p><p>“I don't know which one of the pocket blues you are, but if you don't get that gun o u t  o f . . .”</p><p>Can't breathe. Can't </p><p>t </p><p>h </p><p>i </p><p>n </p><p>k.</p><p>There is no bear. She's on the mattress. Persephone already got up, leaving her spot next to Xochil to grow cold. There's too much light in the apartment. Someone took the boards and tarps from the window.</p><p>Throat keeps spasming. It shakes her whole body, so dry it hurts. Everything swims and moves. The mattress is moving too.</p><p>She can't separate her wrists.</p><p>Everything goes dark, like standing up too quickly.</p><p>“You could thank me.” When the light comes back, a large horned face obscures most of her field of vision. Rectangular pupils on yellow eyes. “Couple'a days in the shitty backroom cell getting sandwiches and coffee before you go get shot for that little message. Y'ask me, you lived too long anyway.”</p><p>What?</p><p>“It’s like a last vacation for you. Five-star little hole. Get your face on the TV as a victim of a heroic bust. All the sympathy points.”</p><p>Spit won’t come out, her throat’s too dry.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s about right.”</p><p>Darkness.</p><p>Now she’s definitely on the floor. A cold floor. She tries snuggling into her hoodie just to find it’s not there. Opening her eyes burns, but her heart rate keeps a dry pounding in her head.</p><p>She falls impossibly, like a many-tailed kite in a storm. Too much time. Drowning in a mouthful of cotton. Her lungs don’t want air and she resents them. </p><p>It’s all sleepwalking right now. Blurred.</p><p>Amber eyes watch from the corner of the room. The empty concrete room. The eyes, filled with pity. No colors. </p><p>S</p><p>T</p><p>A</p><p>R</p><p>I</p><p>N</p><p>G</p><p>They grow more focused by the second, more vibrant. She can’t escape and her mouth is both empty and dry. They <em> bore </em> into her.</p><p>A rumble in her throat. The escaping growl snaps her jaws, and the hyena shrinks back. The hyena. Attached to the eyes. Slightly shaking. <em> In focus </em>.</p><p>The wolf is horridly awake.  </p><p>Xochil tries for a voice. What comes out is a rasping sound like the back of an old penny drier.</p><p>There’s a small, tenuous smile from the other prisoner.</p><p>She tries again. The resulting noise is somewhere between the rasp and her voice. It reminds her of a high-pitched Persephone:</p><p>“Hey… I don’t bite—much.” She tries for a smile, “‘Less <em> you </em>do.”</p><p>“I do not bite.” It’s just a nervous statement of fact.</p><p>“I, uh, I don’t, either. Unless someone’s fucking with me,” she puts her arms up, claws in, “—and you’re not. For real.”</p><p>“Ah… Thank you.” The hyena speaks like an old mammal, with an accent so heavy, Xochil can feel it enter her ears.</p><p>She decides to go for the one thing they have in common: “So what’cha take? For the old bones or whatever.”</p><p>“Forgive me, but I have not taken anything.” Maybe they think Xochil’s a cop. The wolf’s been told that her tattoos are overdone, but never cop-trying-to-fit-in overdone.</p><p>“Sure. 'Kay. So... they come around yet? Check up on the thin blue net’s dredge-up?” Just a blank stare, “Anyone been by the door?”</p><p>“The big officer. Big sheep. When they brought you.” <em> Fuck </em> . She gets to her feet… stumbles around in… something like a circle. Wobbles. She hates feeling so <em> present</em>. She needs out. </p><p>Sluggish pads pat her own pockets as she tries to figure out if they left anything. There’s a hard rectangle in the hoodie’s single pocket and a jolt goes through her: they left her phone.</p><p>Disappointment.</p><p>What her paws pull out is not a phone, but the metal card the polar bear slipped down her neck. On the other side of the fabric covering her body. Trying to think about anything that’ll distract her from that change of location, she runs her thumb over the surface of the card.</p><p>The thin slab is all brushed metal, shaped like a credit card. Just a crest and a number. </p><p>A number. From someone with the power to stave off Wilson.</p><p>Lifting her paws to the armored glass, Xochil bangs on the blue security door. All knuckles. If she’s gonna get killed, it won’t be after a week in here. She keeps up her fists’ rapping until she can’t really hear the hits anymore.</p><p>Her shoulder blades can feel the stare between them. The <em> uncomfortable </em> stare. She twists her neck around:</p><p>“Are you helping me with this?” Round, black ears fold back, a pup getting yelled at. Fuck, is Elder Spots a <em> child</em>?</p><p>“I am not strong enough to take down the door. I don’t think any mammal—” </p><p>“Don’t you wanna make a fucking phone call or something? Get you out of here?” Maybe Xochil’s just the smartest mammal in the room for once.</p><p>“A phone call?” First time offender, meet last time offender.</p><p>“Yeah. To call your parents or somth’n.” </p><p>Hesitation, then: “I am old enough to not phone my father.” Smartest mammal in the room, got it.</p><p>“<em>Whoever the fuck you wanna call</em>. Just help me <em> get </em> the call. Knock on something. Make noise.” They just sit there, frowning. Xochil glares.</p><p>And stares. Stares at the slowly-repeating motions of their paws, at the tugging on drawstrings, the withdrawn crouching squat they haven't gotten up from. The way their eyes flit back and forth in uncertainty.</p><p>Finally, they listen. A resigned limp carries the hyena to Xochil’s side, where they look to the floor for a few seconds. Maybe they <em> didn’t </em> listen.</p><p>Xochil keeps knocking, hoping—the sound explodes out of the hyena’s chest.</p><p>It’s a whooping laugh, shrill and distorted. It's the combination of a horror movie porcelain doll and whatever fucking soul-rending demon Da’dre used to pull from her waking nightmares back in the group home. Heart stops and races at the same time as the static crawling under her skin grows cold. Her ears twitch, trying to find a way to shut it out. Past ear-splitting, it gets <em> inside her brain</em>. Coming from the back of her skull. She sees all the wrong colors.</p><p>When the door opens brusquely, it’s the first time she’s ever been saved by blue and a badge. On the other paw, she’s now facing a wall of fabric and mammal.</p><p>The wall has ears, though. Probably. And she has a mouth, a number, and half a voice.</p><p>“Yo, officer. You were a person once, right?” To her surprise, the bison doesn’t reach for her neck. “So if you can find your soul <em> and </em> our rights—”</p><p>“Whatever you’re using to make that noise, we’re confiscating it.” No room around the cop’s tone. So she goes right up against it.</p><p>“Really? I thought disembowelment was some illegal shit.” She points her thumb claw at the frozen hyena, and her nose at the impassive face before her. The bovid’s face is still an immovable mask. </p><p>The mountain of a mammal leans in for a breathy whisper: “All I need to do is look the other way when they come looking.”</p><p>Fuck. Uh… “Demon Laugh over here don’t got shit to do with that, though. Can you let <em> her </em> make a call?” She really doesn’t know where she’s going with this.</p><p>“I am <em> very </em> confused. Who is this 'they'?” They should <em>stop talking</em> until Xochil can slip this card in their pocket.</p><p>“...what’s the angle?” Thank you, bicep bison.</p><p>“‘I give a fuck’ is the angle. They’ve got rights and shit.” She doesn’t finish that sentence with ‘and so do I’. </p><p>“You were a person once, huh?” The vomit-inducing self-satisfaction in his smirk makes her see red. She shakes it away from her head, sliding into a backstreet-deal smile:</p><p>“Never.” And he thinks he’s won. If the hyena fucks up the call, he <em>will </em> win, in the end, but she's not giving him this conversation.</p><p>“One call. Not you.” She steps back, looks to her left.</p><p>“You got a number, right Spots?” Their eyes widen. Pinprick pupils tremble slightly like the horror-show laugh got into <em>their</em> brain. “Just tell ‘em we’re here.”</p><p>The wall moves back in, covering the door: “Either she has nothing to do with this, or she’s telling someone you’re here. Which is it?” The one where she gets to hug Persephone goodbye. Maybe buy some new coats.</p><p>“Just… my family,” she really wants to laugh at that, “Spots is basically my cousin and I’m gonna need a funeral arrangement.” She puts her arm around the hyena's wide neck and shoulders, feeling the remains of a tremor.</p><p>There's a war going on behind the cop's beady little eyes.</p><p>“One call.” She nods in submission. <em>I won</em>.</p><p>Grabbed by their clothes, the hyena’s led down the hallway, haunted stare turning away from the door slamming in front of Xochil’s face. Blue door. Blue light.</p><p>Her arms itch.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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  <em> 2-9-20-20-5-18  19-9-16-19 </em>
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